


It's Not This Life, It's These (Day)dreams

by Fxckxxp



Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Christmas Fluff, Evakteket Challenge, First Kiss, Flirting, Fluff, Gløgg, Kosegruppa, M/M, Marijuana, Mistletoe, like blink and you'll miss it, very very very brief mention of internalized homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 14:38:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13079010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fxckxxp/pseuds/Fxckxxp
Summary: Isak is 110% done with Vilde, Sana is on his hit list, and he can’t make Christmas cookies to save his life. Oh, and there’s Even—whose laugh is what Isak notices, whose charm is what makes him fall, and whose kisses are what make him stay.Or, what might have happened if Kosegruppa had gone a little differently.





	It's Not This Life, It's These (Day)dreams

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the [Evakteket Christmas Challenge!](https://evakteket.tumblr.com/post/166037134322/yes-the-evakteket-challenge-is-back-we-know-its) Thanks to my beautiful beta [Megan](https://valtermeme.tumblr.com/) :)
> 
> My prompts were Kosegruppa, Mistletoe, and Gløgg.
> 
> Enjoy some Christmas fluff, lovelies. <3

The first time Isak meets Even, he doesn’t. 

Well, he kind of does—when Vilde makes them stand in a circle at the first Kosegruppa meeting and introduce themselves. 

_Hi. I’m Isak. I’m in the second year, my favorite subject this term is Biology, and I joined Kosegruppa because ~~I had to~~ it sounded cool._

Sounded cool his ass. He’s only here because Sana won’t give him back his weed unless he comes to _every meeting. _To top it off, the boys don’t show and Isak recognizes no one besides Sana, Vilde, and Eva. But they don’t count.__

He does a quick scan across the circle—lazy eyes in a constant state of perpetual disgust, threatening to roll at any moment, just to see if anyone here looks remotely cool. There’s a person he’s seen maybe once or twice in the hallways. Probably a new first year, too. Is that guy from Chemistry last semester? Who knows.

But then there’s him. Isak has to force himself to breathe when he catches his eye—how could he have not seen him this whole time? Besides the fact that he’s a good head and a half taller than everyone else, he’s too old to be a first year and—let’s be frank—if he had been around Nissen before, Isak would have _definitely_ remembered.

_Hi, my name is Even. I’m in the third year, my favorite class this term is creative writing, and I joined Kosegruppa because I wanted to meet people._

Okay, so his name’s Even. No big deal. He’s not totally beautiful or anything.

Whatever. On top of being pissed off, Isak doesn’t have time for this. Sana keeps glaring at him because he’s ruining the kos with all of his eye rolls. Vilde’s talking now, saying something about everyone finding a seat on the bleachers—so that’s his cue to tune out. He takes out his phone while he sits.

> **ISAK:**  
>  I fucking hate you guys
> 
> **JONAS:**  
>  That bad?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  You have to come with me next time or you’re not getting it back
> 
> **MAHDI:**  
>  Yoooo  
>  That’s not how this works
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Sana’s pretending to be Pablo Escobar and is rationing it off to me after every meeting
> 
> **MAGUS:**  
>  HAHAHAHA  
>  Sana?! Really?!
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  It’s not funny

  
He startles when Eva rustles a piece of paper under his nose.

“Huh?” Isak looks up from his phone at her.

“Are you listening?” She whispers harshly at him, flicking him in the forehead after he takes the paper. “Fill this out. Vilde wrote it.”

He scans it. _Who’s My Match_ is written at the top, followed by a long list of yes or no questions like _would you consider yourself a good cook?_ and _do you see yourself a social person?_

No. And no.

“Eva?” 

She turns her head back over her shoulder while she continues handing out papers, raising her eyebrows at Isak to continue.

“I don’t have a pencil,” he mumbles sheepishly, shrugging his shoulders with a innocent half-smile.

She sighs, fishes her hand through her pocket, and, once finding one, throws a pencil at Isak, not seeming to care if the pointy end lands right in his eye—and it almost does—the eraser bounces off his forehead as he throws his hands up in useless defense.

 _“Thanks,”_ he shoots at her sarcastically, earning him a large, fake smile that’s all teeth—she follows up with a genuine one, seeming to make herself laugh.

There’s a giggle behind him on the bleachers. Deep and throaty and it causes Isak’s senses to halt the outside world so they can pay attention to it. He notices Even out of the corner of his eye laughing to himself at their encounter—one second of eye contact before his smile becomes close-lipped ang giddy while he flips his pencil through his fingers, looks down with a reddening face, and circles the first question.

 

————

 

The second time Isak meets Even, Jonas is there. (Because he’s a stellar friend.)

“Everyone get in a circle and take out your phones!” Vilde cheers, clapping her hands together as the last few students filter in through the theater hall doors for the second Kosegruppa meeting. “We’re going to do an icebreaker, and then I’ll sort you into pairs which I’ve determined from the quizzes you took last time. You’ll get to know each other a little bit and then I’ll hand out the schedules so you know when it’s your turn to bring some kos,” she giggles cutely, “to the revue rehearsals.” 

“Icebreaker?” Jonas whispers—a little perplexed.

Isak sighs. “It’s a thing.”

They shuffle into the circle and take out their phones like Vilde asked. Isak eyes the crowd for Even (it’s not like he’s been counting the days to the next Kosegruppa meeting, okay?) who’s standing almost directly across from him with hands shoved in his pockets and feet rocking impatiently from heel to tip-toe and back again. They make eye contact, but Isak ducks his gaze quickly—just missing Even’s smile.

“Alright!” Vilde giggles with an animated smile once everyone has settled. “We’re going to go around the circle and introduce ourselves again using a username from your social media. Twitter or Instagram or Snapchat—or maybe you have something new and obscure you can share! And then—with no context—read your latest tweet or status or story out loud. That way we can start to follow each other and stay connected and form friendships as a group!”

Isak would rather die. And not because he’s nervous to share, but because he’s almost 100% positive his last post involves the word cat-kisser.

As people go around the circle, there are a few funny ones. Mostly things that have to do with partying or being drunk. Someone even reads their Tinder profile. When it’s Even’s turn, Isak’s a little disappointed to learn he doesn’t have anything.

After Jonas finishes reading something from Jodel, Isak hesitates. He’s not embarrassed to read it, actually—he just _truly_ wishes Magnus were here.

“Hi,” Isak introduces himself again rather unenthusiastically. “I’m isakyaki on Instagram. My last post is a picture of my friend Magnus Fossbakken,” he makes sure to note with a sly smile. “It says: _Boy. Sixteen. Seeking cat. Still. Must have jagged tongue, but if that's proving difficult than just a slightly jagged tongue will also do. Sincerely, the Cat Kisser.”_

It’s silent for almost too long after Isak’s done laugh-reading to the group. He can feel his stomach sink when he looks up from his phone and is faced with horrified stares. The color is draining from his face and he thinks maybe he’s made a mistake, but then there’s a loud snort from the other end of the circle—Even. Who’s now clutching his side in pain from laughing so hard, and, probably because of his charm, has convinced everyone else to join in until Vilde has to quiet them down with a tight frown on her lips.

“Okay,” Vilde sighs, trying to gather the group back under control. “Thanks, Isak,” she grits in his direction. “Now I’m going to put you in pairs,” she fumbles through the clipboard she’s holding until she finds the paper she’s looking for. “Ah! Okay. So after I sort you we’ll have about a five minute break so you guys can learn a little bit about each other, and then I’ll go over the revue rehearsal schedule.”

She starts reading names, and Isak has already decided that it doesn’t matter who he’s paired up with, he’s just going to convince them to switch so he ends up with Jonas. They can blow it off together and then Isak won’t have to feel guilty about it.

“Isak,” Vilde snaps at him, reality raining back down. “You’re with Even.”

Well, that changes things. 

Like magnets, their eyes find each other across the circle—Even offers a weak and sweet smile that does something unfair to Isak’s insides.

Vilde’s done reading. People are moving to find their partners. Isak’s feet are glued to the floor. Time seems to stop and then move at double speed.

“Hi,” Even smiles, suddenly in front of him after crossing the circle in only a few steps. “I’m Even.”

“Isak,” Isak swallows as he introduces himself—for the first time in private—suddenly too nervous to look Even in the eyes for longer than a second. It sounds a little cold, but he has no idea what else to say. Or, for that matter, how to say it.

“I liked your, uh, cat story,” Even teases. “Does your friend have a cat fetish?”

Isak’s shoulders ease with melting tension. “Magnus,” he snorts, sniffing his nose nervously. “He’s just an idiot. Tried to make up a story about hooking up with a girl who had a cat tongue, so now I’m just rubbing it in.”

Even turns his head back to Jonas, who’s talking to Eva at the front of the hall. “Is that him?”

“Nah,” Isak waves. “That’s Jonas.” He leans in a little, to whisper. “I actually don’t give two fucks about the revue—I’m just here to get back my weed that’s being held hostage. So, like, sorry if you’re excited about this or something.”

Even raises an eyebrow dramatically, and oh god Isak’s heart is beating double-time now—frantic and loud—when a smile finds its way to Even’s lips and lights up his whole face. It puts all of the stars in the sky to shame. Isak honestly doesn’t remember the last time he’s felt this way—If ever. Nervous, but also elated. Like something on the razor’s edge of thrill and fear; he could take one wrong step and fall head over heels into bliss or misery. Alternatively, he could stand there forever, decisionless, and let the blade slowly cut into the balls of his feet.

 _Even’s just a good looking dude,_ Isak thinks to himself, trying to shake his stupor. _So chill. Just a good looking dude who smells really fucking wonderful with a killer smile and a sexy voice and—_

“Sounds like an episode of Narcos,” Even observes.

 _AND WHO WATCHES NARCOS._ Isak is already smitten.

“Exactly!” Isak hisses in excitement, looking over at Sana, who is, for some reason, looking back at the both of them.

“Take this!” Vilde passes by, interrupting them and handing Even a schedule before twirling once around, blonde hair swaying like a curtain around her face, and heading off to the next pair. “I’m going to go over it in a minute!”

Even studies it, then hands it to Isak. “We’re the last ones,” he points out, almost a little gloomy.

“Yeah,” Isak stares at their names. _Isak and Even. December 15th. Final Rehearsal._ He wants to tear that section off and keep it forever—something tangible, as if their names written together like that mean something. _Isak and Even._ If he’s not careful, he’ll start doodling it all over his notebook like a middle schooler.

“So... we should probably keep in touch?” Even offers, and Isak’s not prepared for his heart to stop when he looks up to see Even’s face painted with curiosity—blotches of nervousness mixed in as little red patches on his cheeks. He transforms from hot to adorable in an instant and Isak has no idea how he does it. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Isak nods, scrambling for words. “Of course. Uh—” he pulls his phone out and swipes over to the Facebook messenger app. “Wait. You don’t have Facebook.”

Even reaches out and takes Isak’s hand—turning it over slowly palm up and placing his phone in it. Isak’s skin cells are not ready for the connection, and when it finally hits it’s like a needle has been stabbed into every mitochondria; it’s so tender it’s painful.

Isak stares at it dumbly.

“Put your number in it,” Even spurs—hair bouncing and eyes lighting up just to tease Isak, like it’s obvious.

Clunky fingers type out his name, and anxiety is quickly crawling up Isak’s ankles like little ants until they reach his shaky hands. Should he put his last name? A smiley? An emoji? Is that too cheeky? Too flirty? _~~Too gay?~~ He closes his eyes for a beat and lets out a frustrated breath through his nose. _Isak.__ That’s it.

“Great,” Even hums when he hands the phone back, fingers typing away in excitement almost immediately. “I just texted you.”

It’s true. Isak’s phone buzzes in his back pocket.

> **Maybe: Even:**  
>  Hi! It’s Even :)

  
Damnit. Should have gone with the smiley. Isak thumbs over the save contact button.

_Even Kosegruppa._

 

————

 

The third time Isak meets Even, it’s by accident.

He’s running late for Biology, his first class, about two weeks later. Not _really_ running late, he’ll still be on time, but he likes to be early. To sit in the empty classroom and be alone for a minute. To think—whether it be the mindless kind of zoning out or a full-blown daydream.

In all honesty, Even has slipped from his mind—not completely, but his physical presence stuns Isak into something keen to a coma when he’s around, so it’s nice to have his head on straight again.

Almost. He still checks his phone what feels like every thirty seconds. Waiting. He knows it’s a two way street, but it’s also a rabbit hole he’s avid to avoid.

Actually, he’s got his phone in his hand right now—checking, because it’s a habit. He blindly rounds the corner through the doors to the A building when he hears it—that laugh. This time it’s polite, like maybe it wasn’t warranted but is gracious nonetheless. Deep and throaty. A sound Isak forgot but is glad to remember.

And then it all comes rushing back, as if the feeling had never dimmed in the first place. 

This is the moment Isak realizes he’s fucked. That no one else had ever made this much of an impression on him—not even Jonas. That Even is barely a step up from a stranger, yet Isak feels like he’s knows him forever. 

This is also the moment Isak realizes he can’t escape. And that he doesn’t want to.

He has to walk by him to get to class. _Right_ by him—standing at his locker with a shoulder propped against them as he talks to Sana. (Isak can tell from her camo jacket.) One earbud in and one out. Layered in one too many coats and scarves. Cheeks and nose pink with cold, like he had just come inside as well. Effortlessly teetering on the line of cool and cute—a difficult balance Even seems to have mastered.

Isak forces himself to keep walking, because halting dead in the hallway at just the sight of him embarrasses even Isak. Should he look? Should he approach them? Pretend they don’t exist?

Luckily, he doesn’t have to make the decision, because Even spots him first. It’s almost a double take, and that doesn’t go unnoticed on Isak’s end. First it’s just some eye contact and a head nod—like one of those classic _sup bro?_ head nods—chin up with the corner of his mouth raised in a semi-smile. But when Even realizes it’s Isak, his face grows a little warmer. His smirk a little softer and his eyes a little brighter.

Isak decides to stop by. And he feels welcomed to do so, like Even’s smile is inviting him in. “Hi, Sana,” he greets. “Even.” His hands are shaking a bit and he doesn’t fully understand why. So he shoves them in his pockets.

“Hi,” Even beams—body turned a bit to face him. Stretched out long and open as he leans against the lockers and Isak thinks he knows _exactly_ what he’s doing. Or maybe he doesn’t. Maybe Even is just effortlessly sexy, and fuck it all, that just makes him sexier.

What Isak wouldn’t give to just know what the skin of his stomach feels like under his shirt. How his hair feels carded through his fingers. If he smiles into kisses.

“Are you coming to Kosegruppa tomorrow?” Sana interjects his daydream, her eyes narrowed with upturned, pursed lips. She knows he is, if only to get back Mahdi’s weed.

“Yes,” Isak spits with a little sass, mouth open around the word. “I’ll be there. Like always.”

“Well don’t sound _too_ excited,” Sana responds. Her voice is dry but Isak knows she’s joking. “Isn’t Even your partner? You’re being so rude, Isak.”

“I never said I wasn’t excited!” Isak defends, heat rising to his cheeks as he _lies._ Because he’s not excited about Kosegruppa. But he _is_ excited about seeing Even.

The bell rings. Sana grabs her books and shuts her locker. Even hoists his backpack up a little higher on his shoulders. Isak can’t help but notice his blonde waves mimic the motion.

“See you there,” Even smiles, playfully nudging Isak’s upper arms before squeezing lightly and turning away. 

Is it incidental? Is Isak making it up? He could be—could be reading way too far into things—but also, like hope caked in the back of his throat that he can’t swallow down, he might not be.

It all happens so fast. Edgy indecision melting into infatuated curiosity and now, with the ring of a bell, it’s over. And Isak doesn’t think about anything else for the rest of the day—smiling to himself as he’s caught up in a perpetual, lucid daydream with Even at the center.

 

————

 

The fourth time Isak meets Even, he’s stoned out of his mind.

Even isn’t at Kosegruppa, and for some reason it hurts. Maybe because yesterday he had said _see you there._ And those words have been a tendril of hope Isak’s clung to since then, powering him through the night and then day and then evening until now—watching the revue hall doors. Waiting for them to open. To see his face so delicately composed in the tension of charming and mysterious Isak can’t seem to put his finger on yet absolutely adores.

But Kosegruppa comes and goes and Isak sits through it alone, Vilde’s voice like a never ending hum in the background.

“And,” she finishes her announcements, looking up from her clipboard. “Isak? Where’s Even?”

Isak shrugs. Vilde waves the rest of the group off, dismissing the meeting so she can talk to Isak privately.

“Well you and him are in charge of attending the revue rehearsal next week. Do you know what you’re going to do?” She asks, almost a little sympathetic for some reason as she approaches him and the rest of the students filter out.

Isak shrugs again. 

Her expression tightens at his aloofness. She purses her lips tight and small, and Isak can tell she’s a word away from giving him the business. But it melts elsewhere with a deep breath. “Can I ask you for a favor?”

He pauses, caught off guard. “Yes?” Isak draws out the word, more of a question to her question than an answer.

“I was wondering if you could host the Kosegruppa Christmas party?” Vilde presses, and Isak is going to have a hell of a hard time saying no to her puppy dog eyes and pouty frown.

But not without a little give and take. He hums, thinking, before he starts his negotiation. “Fine,” he agrees, and Vilde looks too excited too soon—only diminishing a bit when Isak continues. “But!” He hold up a warning finger, “tell Sana that I want it all back. Right now.” He pauses. _“All_ of it.”

Confused, Vilde tilts her head to the side. She really is a puppy. “Okay,” she trials—the word long and drawn out. “But—”

“She’ll know what I mean,” Isak insists, cutting her off. “Just tell her I want all of it back, and to meet me outside.”

She thinks, but only for a moment—the promise to host Kosegruppa Christmas too tempting to pass up. “Okay!” She beams. “Now, do you have a tree? I was thinking we could—”

“Just text me,” Isak sighs, rocking up from his seat on the lowest bleacher to head outside. On his way, he pulls out his phone while he sits on the top of the bench in the courtyard.

> **ISAK:**  
>  I’m getting the rest tonight
> 
> **MAHDI:**  
>  Seriously??
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  On one condition
> 
> **MAHDI:**  
>  Dude  
>  No
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Dude  
>  Yes  
>  You didn’t come to a single meeting
> 
> **MAHDI:**  
>  You lost the green!
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Only because you were too much of a wuss to hang on to it
> 
> **MAHDI:**  
>  Fine  
>  Lay it on me
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  I get half of the remainder
> 
> **MAHDI:**  
>  Ugh  
>  FINE

  
“Isak,” a smug voice startles him.

“Sana,” he repeats in the same manner, a little smug himself as he watches her pull a small baggie from her pocket.

“You’re not as stupid as you look,” Sana kids. “It was fun while it lasted, but thank you—for saying yes to Vilde. It means a lot to her.”

Isak huffs and waves his hand. “It’ll be over soon.”

“You sound _so_ disappointed,” she mocks, taking a seat next to him. “Didn’t you have fun at Kosegruppa? Didn’t you meet anyone _cool?”_

He freezes for just a moment—one second longer and it might give him away. And one more second of silence will confirm it. 

But he’s saved. “Am I late?” Even’s voice is out of breath as he rounds the corner into the courtyard towards them, scrambling for his pockets as if to find something to check the time.

Even when he’s a mess, Isak’s still awed someone can balance chaotic and charming. But he makes sure the awe isn’t written all over his face—an unintended smile growing nonetheless at just his presence. It’s nice and warm and Even’s disorganized demeanor reminds Isak he’s human. Approachable. _Attainable._

“Barely,” Sana sings sarcastically, checking the non-existent watch on her wrist. “Kosegruppa just ended. And I have to go.”

Even wipes a bit of sweat from his forehead and places both hands low on his hips, scrunching his nose and upper lip while he looks around the courtyard, as if Kosegruppa is going to magically start up again now that he’s here.

“You guys are friends?” Even asks after a moment, eyeing the both of them on the bench.

“No,” Isak and Sana cry at the same time, maybe a little too quickly after Even’s question.

“She’s my drug dealer,” Isak laughs to himself, making Sana squirm for a way out of explaining herself.

She just punches him in the shoulder. Hard.

“Ow!” Isak sneers, rubbing the already forming bruise and opening his mouth only to shut it again—too smart to react.

“I am not,” Sana defends to Even. “I’m as innocent as can be. I just like to fuck with Isak sometimes,” she smiles. “So we’re not friends—we’re… tolerant enemies. On a good day.” Sana stands, brushes off her coat, and pinches Isak on the underside of his arm before smiling a polite _bye_ to them both.

Isak sticks his tongue out at her back.

“Don’t worry,” Even smiles, sitting down next to him. Isak feels the air thicken and tingle. “If you asked Sana if her and I were friends, she’d probably work her way out of admitting it, too.”

“We’re not friends,” Isak insists, although it’s partially a lie. “She really is kind of my drug dealer.”

“Wait,” Even narrows his eyes. “Is this what you were talking about at the first meeting?”

Isak nods with pursed lips. “But,” he rummages in his pocket, retrieving the baggie and holding it up in victory. “I outsmarted her.” He clicks his tongue twice and waggles an eyebrow. “Would you like to celebrate with me?”

Even pulls something from behind his ear. A little green one-hitter—why does that make him hot? Isak can’t help but smile at the fact.

Their fingers brush when Even hands it over, and Isak wishes he could stop overthinking things. Wishes he could just read Even’s mind so he could either get lost in the hope that’s stuck in his throat or try to cough it up.

Isak loads the one-hitter, sparks the lighter, and tages a drag—earthy smoke filling his mouth and throat and lungs for a moment as he holds it in. When he exhales, he feels substantially lighter. “So how do you know Sana?” He asks, passing Even the one-hitter.

He takes a minute to respond. Calculating. Sizing up the hit he’s about to take, and, like Isak, holding it in for a moment. “I know her brother,” he breathes out, his voice neither delighted nor disturbed. It’s rather robotic, really. Isak wonders if he’s struck a nerve.

“I didn’t even know she had a brother,” Isak mentions, lingering his fingers for just a moment along Even’s palm as they exchange the one-hitter again. Just to feel the smooth skin there transform into the rough pads of his fingers like a gradient. Calloused, and Isak wonders what from. Maybe he fixes cars. Maybe he plays the guitar. There are so many things Isak wants to learn about him.

“Goes to Bakka,” Even states, connecting eyes with Isak as he inhales—cheeks tight around his hit. He blushes. “Which is where I used to go.”

“But now you go to Nissen,” Isak says simply. Just putting it out there for Even to do what he wants with.

They exchange the one-hitter again after Isak loads the last of the weed into it.

“I do,” Even laughs a little—it sounds so good through Isak’s foggy filter—heightened and magnified so all of the highs and lows of Even’s voice attach like sticky notes to Isak’s memory—little details written on them that will soon fall off when the weak adhesive gives way.

There’s a pause. Isak’s heart rate is through the roof—probably from being high but he wouldn’t put it past himself to deny it’s because of Even. He ponders if he can hear it.

“I had it pretty rough there for a bit,” Even admits, twirling his now empty one-hitter through his fingers like the pencil on the day of the first Kosegruppa meeting. Isak wonders if it’s a nervous habit. Wonders why he’s nervous now. Wonders why he was nervous then. “I couldn’t go back.”

“But you’re okay now,” Isak says, still a statement but with a hint of question—like he wants Even to confirm it.

“I’m okay now,” Even repeats. Smiles over at him. Genuine and honest and Isak has the overwhelming urge to kiss him and see if it grows under his lips. Being high doesn’t help his desires. 

And of all the things to learn tonight, he learns this. Isak’s not sure what it is, but it seems like they’ve started crossing the hardest barrier.

Which makes it all a little easier.

 

————

 

The fifth time Isak meets Even, he’s a nervous wreck.

> **EVEN KOSEGRUPPA:**  
>  Happy revue final rehearsal eve!  
>  I was thinking we could make Christmas cookies?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Make?
> 
> **EVEN KOSEGRUPPA:**  
>  Of course make!  
>  What, you think I’d buy Christmas cookies?  
>  That’s a sin  
>  You have to make them Isak!  
>  From scratch!  
>  No exceptions!  
>  The secret ingredient is love  
>  What time should I come over?

  
Yikes. Isak is freshly up from an afternoon nap. Chaotic curls and morning breath can testify to that—not to mention he hasn’t showered since who knows when and the whole Kollectiv is a mess because Noora and Eskild have been busy.

Yet not even thirty minutes later, Even is standing in Isak’s doorway—shucking off his shoes and almost toppling over with the grocery bags slung over his arms and resting in the creases of his elbows. Cheeks and nose red with the cold—Even’s hair is soft and windblown; it’s downright cruel that his smile is so wide to top off all the cuteness.

“Your place is nice,” Even notes as he drops the bags on the counter, slowly removing sacks of flour and sugar one by one from their contents. Lastly, he pulls out a six-pack from the final bag and raises his eyebrows. “Holiday baking is way more fun when you’re an adult.”

With a comforting sigh, Isak lets out a mini laugh and takes a beer from Even. “Holiday baking,” he mocks, taking a swig, “is definitely not my specialty, so I’ll just let you know I’m only here for moral support. And cookie dough,” he adds as an afterthought. 

Giggling, Even narrows his eyes with a hint of scepticism as he begins to rummage around the kitchen for, well, whatever Isak assumes is needed to bake cookies. Measuring cups? Bowls? Spoons? Isak has no idea. 

Even’s comfort and confidence in Isak’s home does something to him. Flashes him to the future and back again, as if he’s experiencing some sort of little loop of infinity—like he’s aware this feeling isn’t going to expire anytime soon. He’s relaxed. Unpressured. Isak takes another sip of his beer and just watches—unashamedly. At the way Even moves about his home and heart.

Even preheats the oven, then rummages through the cupboard and pulls down a large mixing bowl. “Sana said we got every question as a match on that Kosegruppa quiz,” he prods with a knowing smile. “Did you not circle yes for _would you consider yourself a good cook?”_ He teases.

Oh fuck. Isak needs to buy some time and finish his beer before he can answer the question. “To be honest,” he confesses after the last gulp—lifting one finger off his bottle to point at Even, who is now starting to measure sugar and crack eggs, “I didn’t even read the quiz. I just circled everything randomly,” he finishes with a playful grimace that turns into a rather proud smile.

Disappointed, Even closes his eyes, tips his chin back, and places a hand to his heart. “Ouch,” he whines slowly, taking a deep breath in before letting it out with upturned lips. “And here I was assuming you were my soulmate.”

Even resumes mixing the cookie dough as if that word didn’t just shake every cell in Isak’s body alive.

“Or are you?” Even wonders out loud after a moment, pausing to glance up like he’s asking the question out loud less to Isak and more to the universe itself. He dips a finger into the bowl before sticking it in his mouth—eyes wide over at Isak. “Want some?”

For a moment, Isak wonders if Even is going to stick his finger back in the bowl and offer it to him. He’s almost disappointed when instead, Even just passes him the whole bowl, slowly extracting his finger from his mouth and finishing with a little _pop!_ noise when it’s free. 

Isak shakes his head, near stupefied.

He shrugs. “I mean, you circled every question randomly and we still got the exact same answers,” Even hums nonchalantly, taking a step forward and bopping Isak on the nose with his finger before scrunching his own up with a smile. 

It’s strangely sensual—this mix of domesticity and tension. Isak can feel a little wet spot linger on his nose when it’s gone.

“That’s almost more impressive, if you ask me.”

 

————

 

The sixth time Isak meets Even, he stops counting.

“Merry Christmas!” Vilde giggles. Her voice fits in perfectly with the atmosphere, like it’s another Christmas decoration. Warm, peaceful chatter and laughter fill the Kollectiv as the Kosegruppa decorate cookies, hang ornaments on the tree, and drink a little too much gløgg. Everything is perfectly tipsy.

Isak can hear her before he sees her, but that’s because something is being pulled down over his eyes. Vilde is clasping her hands with a wide smile in front of him as he peels whatever it is back off of his head.

A santa hat—only instead of red it’s white, covered with a green and silver mistletoe pattern.

“No,” Isak refuses when he sees it, handing it back to her with a shake of his head.

“You’re the host!” Vilde protests, her smile fading into a pout. “You have to wear it!”

“You’re the host,” Isak insists, trying to shove the hat back into her arms to no avail. “This is just my apartment.”

“C’mon,” Vilde whines, her shoulders slumping with a fake pout on her lips. “This is a party—it’s a game! Everyone you talk to gets a kiss! It’s the perfect way to spread some _kos!_ You’re always under the mistletoe!” When she sees Isak’s disturbed reaction, she rolls her eyes. “You ask them,” she clears her throat, putting on her cheery voice again, “hand, cheek, or lips!” Like it’s just so obvious. “And whoever chooses lips—they have to wear the hat next!”

“I’ve never heard of this game,” Isak deadpans.

“That’s because I made it up!”

“Then why are you talking to me as if I should know?”

“Oh my god, shut up and just wear the hat, Isak!” Magnus sighs, rolling back his entire head while he interrupts their bickering. When Isak doesn’t move, he grabs the hat and puts it on Isak’s head for him.

“Now ask me!” Vilde demands, crossing her arms and waiting impatiently, tapping foot and all.

Sighing, Isak rolls his eyes. “Fine. Hand, cheek, or lips?”

Vilde’s eyes light up with satisfaction, her smile not too far behind. “Hmmm,” she ponders, prolonging the experience just to tease him. “Cheek!”

Isak promptly pecks her on the cheek, pulling away with a forced smile. “Happy now?”

Vilde beams. “That’s the spirit!” She cheers before turning and skipping away.

Yet she also seems to “check in” on Isak with every interaction—making sure he greets guests and mingles and asks. 

_You have to play along, Isak!_

He’s this close to begging Vilde to just fucking kiss him herself so she can wear the hat, but apparently she would rather not—and Isak can’t tell if she thinks he’s gross or because she’s getting some sort of twisted thrill from watching him suffer.

And suffer is an understatement. So far he’s kissed both Eva and Linn on the cheek, Noora on the hand, and Sana got an air kiss when she politely declined all three offers. Thankfully, Jonas and Mahdi didn’t pressure, but Magnus _demanded_ a cheek kiss.

He’s trying to avoid everyone, namely Even, which he’s a bit bummed about. Is it too much to ask to get tipsy on gløgg and talk to his crush—cozy and cute in his Christmas sweater with soft hair and a deep voice with red cheeks from one too many drinks? He’s counted the glances. 21. Yet when he sees Even move an inch, Isak’s gone in an instant to save himself the embarrassment. Words gotten around about the game, and soon people are approaching _him._ There’s a tap on Isak’s shoulder which nearly gives him a heart attack, and Eskild appears on the opposite side after Isak looks first in the wrong direction before meeting his gaze.

“I’ve heard you’re playing a game, pretty boy,” Eskild sings beside him, bopping the fuzz ball on the end of his hat and batting his eyelashes. “Is that why you’ve been avoiding me?”

“Maybe,” Isak grumbles into a sip of gløgg. “Let’s just get this over with. Hand, cheek or lips?”

Eskild ponders for far too long, and Isak wonders why everyone here has to think so goddamn hard about it.

“Lips!” Eskild chirps. “No, no—I won’t make you do that. Unless you want to get rid of the hat. You’re such a grinch in that thing—where is your Christmas spirit?”

“You can just have it,” Isak starts, trying to pull the hat off his head before Eskild stops him.

“No!” Eskild swats his hand away. “Play by the rules, tiny Jesus. Don’t worry, you’re so handsome someone will want to kiss you sooner or later.” He winks. “Anyways—cheek I guess. Plant one on me, gorgeous.”

Isak can’t help but be a little fond. Hesitantly, as Eskild cranes his neck to offer him his cheek, he leans in to kiss it.

“Eskild!” Isak reels when Eskild turns his head at the last second—Isak catching the corner of his mouth with a kiss before frantically wiping his lips, as if that will brush away the incident. “What the hell!”

“Ha!” He cheers, pointing a finger gun at Isak. “Got you, pretty boy!”

“Does this mean I can give you the hat?” Isak grumbles, wiping his face one last time with his sleeve for good measure.

“What’s up with the hat, anyways?” A deep voice resonates through Isak, and like usual, Isak hears Even before he sees him.

Eskild’s eyes grow wide and his jaw goes slack with awe when he sees Even—much less subtle about his own infatuation upon first impression. “It’s a game,” Eskild says almost devilishly, and Isak can’t tell if he wants to answer his question and take the hat from him or plant his matchmaking seed into the soil between them. “I have to go!” Eskild spins on a heel with the statement hanging left in the air for Isak to explain.

“A game?” Even asks, eyebrows up. He bops the puff ball on Isak’s hat like Eskild did, only this time it makes the nerves dance down Isak’s spine until his feet feel numb.

Isak points lethargically to his hat—shoulders low and eyes rolling back into their sockets with irk. “Modern mistletoe,” he sighs. “Hand, cheek, or lips?” When Even looks surprised with the choice, Isak reels. “It’s just this stupid thing that Vilde made up and—”

“Lips,” Even smiles, interrupting him.

Unprepared is an understatement. Even’s answer sounds muffled, like ringing in Isak’s ears; yet he can’t quite tell if it’s the kind that comes before passing out or the kind that signals his brain to _move, damnit. Do something._

“Unless you don’t want to...?” Even backpedals, rubbing his palm on the back of his neck when Isak realizes he’s been standing there—frozen. Taking too long to answer. Virtually petrified in that hair-raising horror he’s not quite sure if he’s ever felt before but somehow finds certainly thrilling. Is your stomach supposed to eat itself alive? Is your brain supposed to fire every neuron at once into panic mode? Is Isak _supposed_ to want to take him up on the offer?

(Because he certainly does.)

“Yes—” Isak stammers, because yes is all he can think of in this moment, despite his mouth refusing to comply. In his mind Even’s lips are on his and his brain is a chorus of _yes yes yes _and _yes._ Yet Even’s face falls at the word, because yes might be the feeling, but it’s not the correct answer to the question. “Wait,” Isak fumbles. “I mean. No? Wait—”__

__Deep and throaty laughter. That same giggle Even had given Isak on the revue hall bleachers that made him turn his head—had given him a seed to plant in the groves of his brain field to plant and sprout and nurture with every mention of his name. It’s not condescending or indifferent. It’s the kind of laugh that you laugh along with. It’s the kind of laugh who’s owner gives away for free when in reality they could charge. Isak finds comfort in it—wants to find it all around him, but more specifically, wants the origin of it pressed to his mouth so they can laugh together._ _

__Isak gulps—swallows all the yes’s to give him bravery. “Lips,” he repeats once with a head nod, as if crystallizing the word. _Even wants to kiss him on the lips._ He tilts his head. He’s hyper-aware of everything; of the weight of the hat on his head; of his fingers, which have somehow found their way to Even’s sides in the proximity; of how his sweater feels under them; of how Even is waiting, almost impatiently, like he’s thought about this more than Isak has. And maybe that’s why, when he hears that laugh—deep and throaty—just a hint of it dancing on the closed smile of Even’s lips before he places his own to meet them, Isak falls just a little bit in love._ _

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi to me on [tumblr!](https://bisexualcaravaggio.tumblr.com/)


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